History
by pepperlandgirl
Summary: Set after Season 7--Minor spoilers. Buffy won't let Spike go.


Title: History

Spoilers: Up to 7.22 Chosen (The actual events of the story aren't based on spoilers though)

Description: Buffy reflects on her history and tries to move on. 

Rating: Right now, R 

"Can I look at your pictures?" 

Buffy glanced over her shoulder at her nephew. "Go ahead.  But be careful with them." 

"I will be," Billy promised, as he settled the massive box of photographs on his small lap. "Why do you have so many pictures?"  
  


"I have a lot of memories," Buffy answered. "Where's your sister?" 

Billy shrugged, "Downstairs, I think." 

  
Buffy walked over to the door and yelled down the stairs, "Sarah! Come up here, sweetie." Within seconds, an eager, coltish young woman bounded up the stairs, her long glossy hair streaming behind her. She looked so much like her mother that sometimes Buffy slipped and called her Dawn. 

"Yeah?"

"Can you keep an eye on your brother while I clean out this closet? I don't want him to get into anything while my back is turned." 

"Sure," Sarah agreed, then followed Buffy into the bedroom and plopped on the bed next to her brother. "Whatcha got there?" 

"Pictures," Billy answered, engrossed with the places he had never been and people he had never met. A few he recognized. That was Grandma Joyce, and mommy when she was young, and Uncle Xander before he lost his eye, and Aunt Willow with a blonde woman he did not recognize. He didn't recognize the older man with glasses, or the pretty blonde woman in all the pictures with Xander. 

"Who are all these people?" Sarah asked. 

"Friends," Buffy answered from the depths of her closet. Who knew there was so much garbage? Maybe she should do her spring-cleaning every spring, instead of every five years. 

"What happened to them?" The younger woman pressed. 

  
Buffy emerged from the closet and took a deep breath. "You guys aren't going to let me work, are you?"

"No," they answered in unison. 

"Alright, let's see what you got here." Buffy said, settling on the bed between the two of them and taking the pictures from Billy. "That is Anya. That is Tara. That is Giles. Old, boring, and British," she added with a slightly sad smile. "He was my watcher when I was young." 

"Are they dead?" Billy asked.

"They are," Buffy confirmed. "Are you sure you want to hear this?" 

"Yeah," Sarah insisted while Billy nodded. 

"Right, well, Tara was shot by a bad man on accident. That was a year before the Battle."

"When you lost your powers?" 

"Calling," Buffy corrected. "When I lost my Calling. But yeah, that one. Giles and Anya were heroes, and they saved a lot of lives in that Battle. They sacrificed themselves so you guys could live in a better world." 

"Do you miss them?" 

"Every day." 

They lapsed into silence and continued to look through pictures. At the bottom of the box, Sarah pulled out two pictures. Both were battered and slightly faded. "Who were these guys?" She asked. "I've never seen them before." 

"Let me see," Buffy said, though she knew immediately who it was. "That's Angel, and that's Spike." 

"Wow," she breathed, "They were really hot." 

Buffy laughed, "Yeah, they were." 

"Who was Angel?" 

"He was somebody I knew a long time ago. I used to love him when I was very young. But I don't know where he is these days. He kind of disappeared." 

"So he was your first love?" Sarah seemed positively entranced by the idea. She was still young enough, and naïve enough, to believe in the epic power of a girl's first love. She didn't ask, but Buffy could hear the unspoken question anyway. _Was he your soul mate?_  

"He was the first man I loved, yes. I loved him for a long time too." 

"But not anymore?"

"No, we both grew up and changed, and then grew apart. Angel and I….we were doomed from the start. Only, I couldn't see that. Not until much, much later. I think he already knew though." 

"Was it because he was a vampire?" Billy asked eagerly. 

"How did you know that?" Buffy asked, frowning. 

Billy shrugged, "I heard Mommy talking to Uncle Xander about him once." 

"I'm surprised they would talk about him in front of you," Buffy commented mildly. 

"Oh, they didn't know I was there."

"It's not polite to eavesdrop, Billy."

He smiled, "I know. What about him? Was he your boyfriend too?"

What a loaded question. 

"Yeah," she said softly. "He was."  
  


"Did you love him too?"

"I still do. He was a good man, one of the finest I ever met. He died…" Buffy's voice caught slightly and she took a deep breath to compose herself. "When he died, he did save the world and in the process, activated the Slayers' power. Before that, I was the only one."

"That must have been lonely," Sarah commented. 

"It was very lonely. But I had my friends, and your mother, and Spike."

"How did he do it?"

"He had an amulet. Once activated, it would kill all of the vampires within a certain limit and unlock the Power, which would enable us to close the Hellmouth once and for all. The problem is that he was the only strong enough to activate it," Buffy explained softly. "It was meant for a Champion, not a Slayer." 

Billy frowned, "How did he die?"

"He was a vampire too. A very special vampire."

"And you still love him? But that was _years_ ago," Sara said. Buffy blinked, had it really been that long? Of course it would seem so to Sarah, it happened years before she was even born. 

"Of course I do. It's getting late, you guys should go get your stuff together." 

Both the children were slightly startled by the sudden change in topic, but neither argued. It was clear their aunt didn't want to talk anymore. When they left, Buffy carefully replaced all of the pictures. All except the one of Spike. Where did that come from? After he had died, she scavenged through the house, Dawn's room, and his belongings looking for mementos, something to hold on too. She cried for days because she couldn't find a picture, and she was frightened that she may someday forget what he looked like. She only calmed down when Dawn sketched a picture for her, and hung it in the living room. 

Buffy studied the picture carefully. He was looking away from the camera, as if he didn't know anybody was taking his picture, standing next to the tree in the front yard and smoking a cigarette. His hair was disheveled, and he was smiling slightly at whoever was standing on the front porch, just off camera. When had it been taken, and by whom? 

Small tears hit the photo, and she quickly wiped them away. It had been fifteen years, and she still found herself crying at odd times, missing him, dreaming about him. His meager possessions were in the nightstand next to her bed, his coat hung in her closet, and every day the river of time carried him further and further away. 

"Aunt Buffy! Mom's here!" Billy yelled. The boy certainly had his mother's lungs. 

Buffy wiped her face quickly and composed herself. She hurried down the stairs and was immediately greeted with a hug. 

"How was work?" Buffy asked. 

  
Dawn grimaced, "Hard. They weren't too much trouble, were they?" 

Buffy shook her head, "They never are. Hey, do you recognize this picture?" 

Dawn took the picture of Spike and stared at it for several moments before finally asking where Buffy found it. 

"In the bottom of that huge box we have upstairs." 

"I didn't take it," Dawn said, "I've never seen it before." She handed it back to her sister. "Weird."

"Very. But hey, not complaining." 

"I have to hurry, Tom is going to be home early tonight. You'll be able to pick them up from school tomorrow?"

"Yep. Tell Tom I said hi." 

"Will do." 

Dawn bustled the children out the door with a wave, and left Buffy standing alone in her empty house. With a sigh, she set about straightening up the minor disaster area they always left in their wake. She loved spending time with Sarah and Billy, they were often the highlights of her day, and she hated it when they left. Because when they were gone, the house was too silent and big. 

Buffy threw herself onto the couch and turned on the television. She pretended to watch a riveting documentary about crocodiles, but in reality her thoughts immediately drifted to where they always did when she was alone. Spike. 

Spike. Spike. Spike. Spike. SpikeSpikeSpikespikespikespike. With his blonde hair and his cigarettes and his duster, and the way he smiled when she confessed her love. Like he didn't believe her. That memory alone was enough to make her heart break, but she always dredged it up, unwilling or unable to leave it alone. Nobody knew how hard it was to live with that memory. Nobody knew that she died every night, shattered and broken because of the way she broke him. 

She would give anything to change the past, and yet at the same time, she cherished it. No matter what happened, it made her into the woman she was today, and she liked that woman. Joyce would have liked that woman too. Spike would have loved that woman. 

He was dead, but never gone. That was why she lived in her house alone. Nobody could even begin to compete with his ghost. He would have wanted her to move on, have a life, have children and a family. He _died_ so she could have that chance, and was it disrespectful to him that she couldn't move on? 

The house suddenly felt too _small_ and hot, and she grabbed a diet Coke on her way to the back porch to begin her nightly vigil. Dawn, Xander, and Willow all frowned and shook their heads when they found her outside, night after dark night, and realized what she was doing.  Waiting. Waiting for a man, twice dead, to come back to her. She knew they thought it was unhealthy, and who knows? Maybe it was. But it wasn't hurting anybody, and it gave her a modicum of peace and solitude. 

It wasn't right that Sarah and Billy didn't know more about Spike. Nobody ever talked about him, because nobody knew what to say, and they didn't want to hurt her feelings. And she didn't talk about him because….well…because it still hurt a lot. But they deserved to know about him, and Spike deserved to live on in their memories. 

Spike deserved to live. 

She clutched the picture tightly in one hand, and covered her face with the other. She knew she needed to move on, to let him go. Maybe it was because she never properly mourned for him that she couldn't let go. 

Spike needed a proper burial, or at least a memorial stone. Something final, something solid. She could bury his jacket, maybe? At that thought, fresh pain ripped through her body. She couldn't let that go. It was the last thing she had that felt of him, smelled of him. But wasn't that the perfect thing to bury then? 

Before she could change her mind, she ran upstairs and grabbed the coat, then rushed out to the back yard. The first thing she did when she lost the Calling, when she was no longer the only chosen girl in all the world, was plant a garden. She always wanted to know the names of the flowers. It was an eclectic hodgepodge of plants and colors, and it clashed more than anything, but Buffy loved it. She had created life with her hands for the first time, instead of bringing dusty, bloody death. 

She dug a hole almost blindly, the tears falling freely now. This was right, she knew it. It was time to try to start fresh. She couldn't spend the rest of her life in mourning (though a small voice in the back of her head insisted he wasn't dead and that he would be back any day) and she needed to take the first step now. It was probably 14 years too late. 

Once she decided the hole was deep enough, she carefully placed the duster at the bottom. Then counted each shovel of dirt she threw on top of it. Three times she stopped and pulled it out, but finally, on the fourth try, she was able to completely bury it. 

"Spike," she started her eulogy softly.  "I'm sorry I can't wait anymore. But I think you would want me to go on living—so one of us is living, right? I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Maybe one day…maybe one day we'll meet up in another place, another world. It's been a long time though, and unfortunately, time is running out. Love you." 

She stared up at the moon for a moment, willing the tears to dry and her heart to stop hammering in her chest. 

"That was beautiful, luv, but you ruined my coat." 

Part 2

Buffy didn't turn around, didn't even blink. This wasn't the first time she heard his voice, and it probably wouldn't be the last. She's even carried on conversations with him before. There was a part of her that always wondered if the discussions were wholly imagined—they seemed so real. 

"I know, I'm sorry. I could…"

"Don't bother. It's fine. Though it had my lighter in it." 

"I can get a new one." 

"I liked that one." 

"You know, I buried the coat so you wouldn't visit me anymore."

  
"I could leave," he offered. 

"No, don't do that." She motioned to her garden bench. "Sit." 

They sat, side-by-side, and silent until Buffy sniffed loudly. "I can't stop crying tonight." 

Spike caught a tear with his thumb, and gently wiped her face. "It's ok, luv." 

She caught his hand and held it against her cheek. "Are you real?" She whispered.

"You know the answer to that, Slayer." 

Buffy nodded, crestfallen. Just a dream, just another dream. 

"Don't look so sad, pet," he murmured. "I'll take care of you. I always do."  He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled on it gently. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

She nodded, and Spike's lips danced across hers. His tongue sought out and caressed the soft corners of her mouth, as he buried his hands in her long hair. Buffy moved as close to his body as she could, not satisfied until she was straddling his lap. Yet they continued kissing, as though a deep, primitive connection existed between them that neither could break if they wanted to. And they didn't want to. 

Spike's fingers caressed her scalp softly, and then abandoned the thick confines of her hair, and massaged the nape of her neck. He was barely touching her, yet his fingers lingered long enough to send electric shocks down her body, until her toes curled. Everywhere that wasn't in direct contact with his hard, lean body ached, and everywhere he touched ached for more. 

And still, neither broke from the kiss. It occurred to Buffy that she should stop to breathe, but Spike was her source for life. She didn't need oxygen, she just needed him. But even as she thought this, he broke away from her and a small whimper of protest escaped her lips. 

"Shhhh, just need to get rid of this blasted thing." And he ripped the shirt over her head. The cool evening air sent goose bumps across her bare, pale skin. She wasn't wearing a bra, and his cool lips immediately found one of her heated, erect nipples. She grabbed the back of his head to hold him there, her fingers threading through his soft, un-gelled curls. He rolled her nipple across his tongue, savoring the texture and taste. He raked his teeth over it, hard enough to make Buffy gasp with surprise, pain, and pleasure. She began to grind her pelvis against his hard bulge, with temporarily assuaged the throbbing ache between her legs. Spike thrust against her in response, which renewed the ache with a vengeance that took Buffy's breath away. 

"Pants off," she half moaned, half begged. 

With a final nip, Spike pulled away from her breast. He lowered her gently to the ground, and the grass pricked her back, but she barely noticed. The night was unseasonably cool, but Buffy welcomed the soft breezes to cool her flushed body. She fumbled with the buttons on her pants, but couldn't make her fingers work. Spike gently pushed her hands away and freed her of the denim confines. 

She lay stretched in front of him, glistening, flushed, breathless, eager. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, passion barely concealed in their green depths. Her hair flowed out behind her, and the moonlight danced on it like fairies. Spike kicked off his own pants, and then kneeled besides her, caressing her with his eyes. 

"My beautiful Slayer," he breathed as he gently, almost tentatively, caressed the soft, moist area between her legs. 

A finger slipped between her folds, and he rubbed her clit briefly, pleasure and moans building in her body. He pulled his finger away, and put it up to his mouth. He licked the sweet liquid from his finger slowly, languidly, and Buffy squirmed as she watched the way his tongue worked. Spike smiled at her wickedly, then bent and ran his tongue across her thigh. 

"Would you like me to taste you," his tongue swirled across her soft skin, "touch you," dances across the sensitive skin, "like this?" 

Buffy nodded her head, unable to speak. It seemed the closer his mouth moved to her clit, the more powerless she became. He was so wicked, so clever, so sweet, and if he would only touch her like…. "Oh! God Spike!" She thrust her hips forward, driving his mouth deeper into the folds of her pussy. He grasped her thighs to hold her still as he swirled his tongue around the bundle of nerves growing harder with each second, but she still bucked against his face. 

A thousands incoherent words and pleas fell from her lips, encouraging him to continue, to do more, to do anything he wanted just as long as he didn't stop. Her body tensed, her legs tightened around Spike, as the orgasm prepared to burst through her body. Just before falling off the edge, Spike freed a hand, and plunged two fingers into her wet, tight channel and hit her G-spot directly. 

A scream ripped from her throat as intense, riveting pleasure tore through her body. Her muscles contracted, and her body shook with the ferocity of the climax. Tears sprung to her eyes, blurring her vision of the stars and moon dancing above her. 

Finally the vibrations stopped and she was able to relax, freeing Spike from the nearly suffocating grip of her strong thighs. He crawled up her body, inch by tantalizing inch, licking and nipping her stomach and breasts. Already the heat was pooling in her groin, and she was ready for him again. Buffy could feel his hard cock pressed against her leg, and knew he was ready for her too. 

Spike paused when he was almost completely stretched on top of her, and nuzzled her neck. She wrapped her legs and arms around him, and in the dark shadows of the night, held him against her desperately. The soft smells of the garden lingered around them, and her ears still echoed with the sounds of her own passionate cries. Her heart thudded against his chest, and the tears that fell down her cheeks mingled with his. She wanted to cradle him against her forever. Buffy was tired of letting him go. 

Spike pulled himself together first, and began kissing and licking the tears from her face. When he caught every one, he turned his attention to her lips again. She welcomed him back feverishly, and that mystical connection reformed with an almost audible click. 

But now the kiss wasn't enough. She needed him inside of her completely. She wanted to wrap herself around him and bring him in until he could never leave her again. Buffy needed to feel his cock and his fangs inside of her body, needed him to drink from her and need her as much as she needed him. 

As if he could read her thoughts—and maybe he could—he finally slid his cock into her waiting pussy, and he shuddered against her as she engulfed him completely. They froze like that, their only movements the involuntary tremors that rocked their bodies. Staring into each other's eyes, too frightened to look away, they moved at the same time. A gentle rocking motion, leashed, restrained, both afraid that the lust and desire, love and passion, welling up within them would be enough to sweep them away forever. 

The rhythm they created was natural and old as time. The danced stretched before them, long into the darkest time of the night. Each pulse, each push, each pull reverberated through Buffy until she was vibrating like a finely tuned instrument. Whole worlds that hung in the balance were righted or destroyed as they fell into each other again and again. 

Sometimes Spike sped up and Buffy would reign in the pace, and others Buffy would move her body against his in an almost desperate frenzy until he kissed her again and calmed her down. 

In a distant way, Buffy realized that the pebbles on the ground were digging into her back, and with the force of their movement, making them bleed. Spike realized this too—he must have smelt the tiny red rivulets—and without leaving her body, flipped them both over, cushioning her body with his. 

The new angle stimulated her G-spot directly, and Spike began gently caressing her clitoris, until rolling orgasms crashed through her body, one after another. Through the haze of pleasure, she heard him murmur his love over and over until his own orgasm overtook him and the murmurs turned to strangled sobs of relief and passion. 

Buffy had so many things she wanted to say, but she was too exhausted to do anything but lay down on him. He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair, whispering that she could sleep, he'd take care of her, he loved her so much, she was so beautiful, he'd always be there for her. 

Her eyelids slowly dropped, and lulled by his words she drifted away. She fell asleep, secure in her lover's embrace, naked in her flower garden. 

Part 3

Buffy woke up slowly, gradually becoming aware of the world around her. The bright sun warmed her, and she stretched languidly, like a cat. She still tingled in all the right places, and in her half-awake state, she could almost feel him between her legs again. Buffy smiled, and felt her body come alive.  She reached for Spike automatically, but came up with only a handful of sheet. 

She finally opened her eyes and registered that she was in her own bed, alone. She choked on bitter tears and bile as she realized it was only a dream. All of it was just a dream. 

Buffy untangled herself from the bedding and stumbled out of bed. She walked blindly into the bathroom, mechanically turning on the shower and stepping under the nearly scalding spray. She didn't even notice that the water was burning her and turning her skin into a shocking shade of red. 

It wasn't until she was nearly done scrubbing her body that she noticed the grass stains on the back of her legs, and registered the slight pain of scratches on her back. She studied her nails and realized they were broken from digging into the ground, clutching the soil and using it as a lifeline. 

Confused and disturbed, she left the shower without bothering to turn it off or grab a towel, and hurried to the bedroom. She looked for any evidence that another person had been in the room with her, but didn't see anything. With a shaky hand and a deep breath, she opened her closet door. 

The duster was hanging there; in it's regular spot. 

Her heart dropped to the ground. Had the entire evening been a dream? What was going on? She inspected the jacket closely and saw it was covered with dirt. There were even small piles of dirt on the floor beneath the coat. But she certainly didn't remember digging it up. 

The last thing Buffy remembered was falling asleep with Spike's cock still inside of her, listening to his voice, dreaming of him even as he stroked her hair. She took the duster off of the hanger and examined it closely. She felt inside the pockets, and his lighter and an ancient pack of cigarettes was still there. 

She felt something else though, at the bottom of the right pocket. She had been through the coat several times, and knew it was impossible for her to miss it before. It felt like paper—maybe a picture. Buffy pulled it from the pocket slowly, curiosity and fear mingling in her belly. 

It was a picture. Spike was looking directly into the camera and smiling. He seemed to be smiling at her. He was wearing his duster, and his hair was tousled and sticking up. He looked happy, and sleepy, like he just woke up. 

Something on the corner caught her eye. It was a piece of bare skin, nearly out of the frame completely. She recognized it though. It was her skin. There was a shovel on the other side of Spike in the background, lying on the ground, next to a large hole. 

Spike was in her flower garden. 

The picture fell from her lifeless fingers. 

The End.


End file.
